Lapas attēli

The fear o'hell's a hangman's whip

To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,

Let that aye be your border;
Its slightest touches, instant pause-

Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,

Uncaring consequences.

The great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature ;
But still the preaching cant forbear,

And ev’n the rigid feature:
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range

Be complaisance extended ;
An Atheist's laugh’s a poor exchange

For Deity offended !

When ranting round in pleasure's ring,

Religion may be blinded ;
Or if she gie a random sting,

It may be little minded;
But when on life we're tempest-driven,

A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n

Is sure a noble anchor !

Adieu, dear amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting : May prudence, fortitude, and truth

Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, “ God send you speed,

Still daily to grow wiser ; And

may you better reck the rede, Than ever did th' adviser!



A’ye wha live by soups o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A' ye wha live and never think,

Come mourn wi' me!
Our Billie's gien us a' a jink,

An' owre the sea, Lament him a'


rantin core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar

In social key; For now he's taen anither shore,

An' owre the sea.
The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions place him:
The widows, wives, an'a' may bless him,

Wi tearfu' ee;
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him

That's owre the sea.
O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,

'Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble

That's owre the sea.
Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
"Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,

In flinders flee;
He was her laureate monie a year

That's owre the sea.

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,

Ill may she be!
So, took a birth afore the mast,

An' owre the sea.

To tremble under Fortune's cummock,
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,
Wi' his proud independent stomach

Could ill agree;
So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,

An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wadna bide in; Wi’ him it ne'er was under hiding ;

He dealt it free: The muse was a' that he took pride in,

That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An' hap him in a cozie biel;
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,

And fou o'glee;
He wadna wrang’d the vera deil,

That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing Billie !
Your native soil was right ill-willie;
But may ye flourish like a lily,

Now bonnilie!
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,

Tho' owre the sea.


Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o' a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic labour dight,
An' cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,

Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin, rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall’d kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve,

Bethankit hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew

Wi' perfect scoliner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornful view

On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip lash,

His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,

O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle ; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,

Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies ; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,

Gie her a Haggis !

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